Who is “they” that Frenchie is talking about on pg. 46

At fifty-nine minutes, thirty-two seconds, I stopped, pulled my lighter
hunt bag and the rifle off my back, and settled into the nook made by a
felled tree. I pushed up into the guts of its roots where they had been
yanked out of the ground. The hole it left had filled with filthy water, but
the roots were dry and tangled enough to make a comfortable seat.